The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  his hands in his pockets, his cherubic curls splayed across his

  forehead. “Ah, darlin’ ,” he began when he met Celine’s gaze. “I

  was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

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  “Let me guess,” Celine said. “You’re here to tell me to stay away from Bastien.”

  A rueful expression crossed his face. “I would avoid it if I

  could. I like you, Celine Rousseau. You vex Bastien greatly. Bet

  you cut your teeth on it.” He grinned, then his features soured

  all at once. “But we just lost Nigel. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

  “An excellent point, Monsieur Ravenel. The loss of one among

  us is indeed an agonizing blow,” the count agreed in a soft tone.

  “As always, I appreciate your support and your wisdom.” Again

  he returned his attention to Celine.

  The fourth cut.

  Despite her rising irritation, Celine felt herself start to curl

  inward, the fear threatening to overcome all else. The next in-

  stant, she forced herself to rally. To channel the goddess Se-

  lene, who lorded over the night sky and all its countless stars.

  “Monsieur le Comte, I’ve heard much about you over the past

  few weeks. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Though Celine tried her best not to sound cheeky, she knew

  she’d failed the moment Boone snorted and Hortense cackled.

  “Comme une reine des ténèbres.” Hortense repeated her

  words from that evening at Jacques’, amusement coiling across

  her features. Celine almost laughed at the absurdity. If she was

  a queen of anything at all, she was Marie Antoinette, on her

  way to meet the guillotine.

  To his credit, the count merely smiled, his amber eyes gleam-

  ing. “And a pleasure to make yours, ma chérie.”

  In an ideal world, Celine should be striving to charm Bastien’s

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  uncle. But that chance had vanished like smoke in the wind.

  After all, only a fool would try to charm a man whose first inclination was to threaten her.

  Nicodemus Saint Germain had, without a doubt, succeeded

  in frightening Celine with this show of bravado. But she had no

  intention of cowering in his shadow. “I do not wish to be dis-

  respectful, Monsieur le Comte, but you claim to prize candor,

  so I submit that there’s no need to belabor your point.” She

  glanced pointedly at his gathering retinue. “It’s clear you don’t find me a suitable companion for your nephew. But in fairness,

  you know very little about me.”

  “On the contrary, I know a great deal about you, Marceline

  Béatrice Rousseau.”

  Again her full name echoed in her ears, the sound carrying

  high above the soughing treetops. And again her heart raced

  behind her ribs in response.

  Soft laughter fell from the count’s lips, as if he could sense

  her mounting fear. “Until recently, you resided with your schol-

  arly father on the third floor of a small flat in Montmartre.” He took another step forward. Celine could not help it when she

  eased backward in tandem. Her body made the choice before

  she could reason with it.

  Nicodemus continued, “And worked under the tutelage of the

  famed Camille de Beauharnais.” He paused with meaning. “In

  the uppermost floor of her atelier . . . beneath a lace of shim-

  mering chandeliers.”

  The thudding of Celine’s heart clawed into her throat.

  He knows. Her worries invaded her mind. He knows.

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  The two words raced through her brain in time with her pulse.

  She fought to maintain her composure, her fingers gripping the

  silver dagger, her nails digging into her palms to the point of

  pain. “It’s clear you’ve learned much about my past, monsieur.

  You obviously have great resources at your disposal. But these

  details do not necessarily inform my present.”

  Nicodemus’ smile was punishing. “I’ve heard you also enjoy

  being reckless. Venturing to places you’ve been forbidden.

  Lying through your teeth and flouting the rules.”

  Color flooded Celine’s cheeks. “To which rules do you refer?”

  “The only ones that matter. Mine. ” His last word was the point of a knife in her back.

  Celine refused to be intimidated, though her knees shook be-

  neath her skirts.

  A new emotion crossed the count’s face. One she could not

  recognize. As Nicodemus studied her, a line formed across the

  marble of his forehead. The next instant, it smoothed, vanish-

  ing from sight. “I admire your fearlessness, Celine. More than

  anything I could learn about your past, I can appreciate why my

  nephew is so taken with you. Not many young women would

  dare to hold their own in the company of so many who could

  kill her without a second thought.” He stepped forward again,

  the end of his walking stick striking the pavers beside his feet

  with a decisive thwack. “Who would kill you at my command, without a moment’s hesitation.”

  The trembling took hold of Celine. She bit down on nothing

  to prevent it from reaching her teeth. There was nothing for

  her to say in response. Bastien’s uncle had just stated in no un-

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  certain terms that Celine continued to breathe at his leisure. A cheeky retort would serve no purpose here. The only thing she

  could do was stand firm. Refuse to quail or beg, though her jaw

  clenched tighter with each passing second, her muscles tensing

  in preparation to fight or to flee.

  After all, Celine Rousseau was not a mewling calf marked for

  slaughter. She could hold her own, if need be. The boy she’d

  killed for daring to treat her like a conquered thing was testa-

  ment to that fact. Her last breath on this earth would not be

  tinged in regret, of that Celine was certain.

  The count glowered into the night as if he could read her

  thoughts, his posture immovable. A mountain beneath the

  moon. “I, too, have heard the whispers of how you’re not afraid

  to spill blood. But you must know that I, too, have no qualms

  about destroying something in my path.”

  “Why do you persist in threatening me, monsieur?” Celine

  gripped her skirts, the handle of Bastien’s dagger cool in her

  palm. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  Another flash of that same unreadable emotion. If Celine

  didn’t know better, she would have sworn it to be admiration.

  “I don’t threaten people, ma chérie,” Nicodemus said. “I trade

  in favors. If there is something I can do for you, you have but

  to ask.”

  Celine almost laughed. Now he was offering her his good fa-

  vor? It appeared that Bastien had learned his chameleon ways

  from his uncle. “I don’t want your money, monsieur.”

  “I would not insult you by offering something as uninspiring

/>   as money.”

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  “May I ask what you want in exchange for earning your favor?”

  The count did not hesitate. “I want you to reject my nephew.

  Cast him aside. Better still if it is for someone else.”

  Celine blinked. “Why do you object to me so?” Her gaze nar-

  rowed. “Is it my lack of fortune or family?”

  “As I said, I am not so uninspiring. Your lack of fortune is in-

  deed a nuisance, but not of the insurmountable kind, were you

  suitable in other respects.” His words blistered Celine’s ears,

  mortification thrumming through her body. “In truth, I am most

  concerned by two things: you are far too inquisitive, and you

  have already become a weakness. I dislike seeing weakness in my

  nephew. Especially for something as inane as human emotion.”

  Celine chose her next words with care, aware her cheeks had

  started to flush. “It is not a weakness to feel, monsieur. I—am

  not a weakness.”

  “It is a weakness the moment one’s feelings override one’s judgment. And love of any kind is a weapon to be used against

  you, when wielded by the right hand.”

  A part of Celine agreed with him. There were many times in

  life when she’d fallen prey to her emotions and erred in judg-

  ment as a result. Then she recalled the threads of hope she’d

  clung to during the long Atlantic crossing. “You should want

  your nephew to find love, my lord. When life becomes difficult,

  the only source of strength we have is love. Love of others, love of self, love of life in its entirety.”

  Nicodemus nodded. “And what is love, ma chérie, a choice or

  a feeling?”

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  Taken aback, it took a moment for Celine to respond. “It is . . . a feeling.” She angled her head upward, biding time while searching for a better answer. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the moon emerged from behind a cloudbank, surrounded by a bevy of stars. Celine stared at the count with de-

  termination. “Love is looking at someone as if the stars shine in their eyes.”

  He nodded again. “A beautiful notion. But you are wrong, ma

  chérie. Love is not a feeling. It is a choice. Contrary to popular opinion, there are many paths to happiness. I must ask which

  one you will choose, for the path you are on now will bring you

  only pain.” The count took a final step closer, until he stood just before her. Close enough that she could see the colors swirling in his amber eyes and smell the strange, icy scent emanat-

  ing from his skin. Like frosted mint. “You do not belong in this

  world, Celine. It may be beautiful—intoxicating even—but

  beauty is a danger to behold, for it often masks the decay lurk-

  ing beneath. Et ça fini toujours dans le sang.”

  And it always ends in blood.

  “I am not so captivated by the beautiful, monsieur.” Celine

  met his gaze without wavering. “For I know beauty is only a

  moment in time.”

  “How right you are,” Nicodemus murmured. Then he placed

  his walking stick before him, both hands braced on the golden

  handle. “Nevertheless I must send along my nephew’s regrets.

  He will be unable to meet you tonight as planned.”

  “I gathered as much, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine said.

  “Don’t take it to heart, mademoiselle. My one goal in life is to

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  protect my legacy. Do as I ask. Reject Sébastien. Hurt him once now to spare you both a life of pain. If you abide by my wishes,

  I will grant any favor you ask. And you’ll find there are no limits to my reach in all matters.” He paused, the line marring his forehead once more. “Defy me, and you’ll find your worst fears have

  become your reality. I will make sure you are left utterly alone, Celine Rousseau. Left to face everything you’ve run from, with

  no one to blame but yourself.”

  His words struck Celine like a blow to the face. As if the count

  had peered into her very soul and unmasked her greatest fear

  of all. She flinched when a final gust of wind preceded the last

  arrival. The one she’d been expecting for quite some time. She’d

  braced herself for it, knowing this wound would cut her to the

  quick. But that did not lessen the sting. She felt it keenly, like a string snapping on a harp, the sound reverberating deep in her

  bones.

  Odette did not meet Celine’s gaze as she moved into position

  at Nicodemus’ left. Her shoulders were rounded, her features

  somber. But still she came to stand beside Bastien’s uncle, her

  steps unfaltering.

  “I’m sorry, mon amie,” Odette said, her sable eyes down-

  turned. “You are my friend. But they . . . are my family.”

  With this final cut, the count drew an invisible line in the

  sand.

  Celine could trust no member of the Court. It was laughable

  to think their loyalties could ever be with her. If Nicodemus

  ordered them to leave her to her fate—to fend for herself, no

  matter the circumstances—they would do as he asked.

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  Michael had already refused to use Celine as bait. If Nicodemus prevented Bastien from helping Celine, she would be

  utterly alone, as the count had promised.

  With a killer lurking in her shadow.

  Perhaps I’ll resort to praying once more. Her thoughts turned grim. In the premier pew of Saint Louis Cathedral, where all the best sinners take refuge.

  Awareness prickled through her limbs.

  Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

  Knowledge kindled within Celine, its cool light surging

  through her veins. She knew where to set her trap. And the

  devil take her if she would wait for a boy to defy his family be-

  fore she made plans. She would do as she always did: whatever

  needed to be done. In Paris, Celine Rousseau had struck down

  her attacker in his prime, with no one to depend on but herself.

  She’d traveled half the world to start a new life, with not a single promise on her horizon.

  And no one—human or demon alike—would stand in her

  way now.

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  HIVER, 1872

  JACKSON SQUARE

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  i

  I believe tonight will end in blood

  and I alone know for whom.

  Maybe she will trap me, with her

  evil little

  Masque, her clever little mind.

  It will all be for naught, for she knows not what she does.

  Love is proof that blood alone means nothing.

  I am thankful my blood is thicker than oil

  Et brille plus fort que le soleil (And burns brighter than the sun).

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  Beautiful Decay

  i

  Celine had lived and breathed French fashion for the better

  part of five years.

  In Paris she’d learned the importance of one’s ch
oice in gar-

  ments. How it spoke for a girl, perhaps before she was able to

  speak for herself. Clothes opened doors as surely as they closed

  them. On a practical level, the way a young lady chose to dress

  indicated not only her station in life, but where she wished

  to go.

  There was an art to dressing. Of all the reasons to love fash-

  ion, Celine had fallen in love with this one the most. The idea

  that she could drape her body in colors to match her soul. How

  a simple dress could convey her hopes and fears and dreams.

  How bolts of silk could be molded into armor in the right per-

  son’s hands.

  This was the spirit that had inspired Celine to create the gown

  she wore now. It was completely unsuitable for the event in

  question, yet perfect in all other respects. The battle regalia of a lunar goddess. Or perhaps an homage to a queen of darkness.

  Celine smiled to herself. Sometimes a girl must make her

  own magic.

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  She filled her lungs with the sultry air of a warm evening.

  The last of the afternoon showers had ended just before the sun

  sank below the horizon. All the packed streets of New Orleans

  glimmered like newly polished silver, the air smelling of iron

  and smoke. Her hem swept over a pool of mirrored water, the

  black taffeta whispering in her wake.

  Just beyond the arch of the main entrance to the Orléans

  Ballroom, Celine paused midstep. For an instant, she imagined

  it to be the exact spot the Marquis de Lafayette himself had

  once stood.

  Though it was unlikely he would have arrived to a fête two

  hours late.

  Celine had needed the time. She’d spent most of her wak-

  ing hours sequestered at police headquarters, finishing her

  costume. Just yesterday she’d managed to complete Odette’s

  ensemble. She’d even attempted to deliver the garments to

  Jacques’, only to be rebuffed at the door by the same Titian-

  haired individual who manned the lift at the Dumaine. After

  confiscating her parcels and rendering payment in full, Ifan

  had turned Celine and the officers in her company away, a self-

  satisfied sneer on his face. Consequently, she’d been denied the

  opportunity to see Bastien or perform a final fitting on Odette.

  Her first glimpse of the finished costume—a daring hat tip to